Den of Zornrah
by OwnedByASpoiledRottenDobie
Summary: While on holiday in America, Sherlock and John meet a girl asking for their help in tracking down a man who's committed mass homicide. Simple, right? Well, not when Sherlock thinks he might be in love!
1. The Dream

"It looks familiar… as if in a dream, or a dream of a dream…"

_The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe_; movie version

If you know what happens in the future, can you alter it?

Location: Unknown, Time: Unknown.

Sherlock could distinctly hear a sound. It was faint, but he heard it: the sound of a woman crying. Turning around a corner in the covered alleyway he was standing in, he saw a woman lying slouched against a wall, blood trickling down her side from a gunshot wound.

"I trusted you, Sherlock, and you failed me. You failed! I loved you, as much as any human being could. Do you hear me: _I loved you_. And now, you've failed. That homicidal maniac is loose again, and may the Good Lord help us if he goes rampaging again with those cursed circus freaks."

Sherlock felt stunned at the woman's harsh words. Sure, people had called him a freak -and worse-, but to hear the dreaded words, 'you failed' snarled at him made him feel as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a ton of bricks. The sound of pattering feet reached his ears, but before he could look up, an earsplitting gunshot pierced the night air. Looking down at the now-lifeless form of the woman and back up in the direction that the shot had been fired, Sherlock noticed a man standing but a few feet away.

"Beware false prophets that come to you in sheep's clothing, but inside, are ravenous wolves," The stranger warned, and, with a snarl, turned into a wolf, and lunged straight for Sherlock's throat.

Omni Hotel, Room 111, Corpus Christi, Texas, U.S., 1:01 a.m.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock opened his eyes. John was standing over him, a worried look on his face, appearing as if about to shake the daylights out of his friend.

"You were dreaming again."

Slowly -more like reluctantly-, Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his face with his hands.

"The same dream every single night. It's so strange. I wonder…if it means something," He mumbled, still drowsy with sleep.

John stared at the sleuth like he had carrots growing out of his ears.

"The same dream, every single night…" he echoed.

"Yes." There was a pause.

"Would you like to talk about this, this, _dream _of yours?"

"Okay… um, I'm standing in an alleyway, and there's an injured woman lying on the ground…"

"Uh-huh; what did she look like?"

Sherlock paused, that faraway look he got when he began thinking deeply coming into his eyes. "Blond hair, brown streaks, natural coloring; normal height is about five feet, three inches, but she was wearing three-inch heels, making her look more like six feet; white t-shirt with an eagle emblem on it; pair of blue jeans. But why on _earth _was she wearing _heels_ with such casual clothing? Maybe-"

"Okay, what happened next?" John interrupted before Sherlock could complete his train of thought.

"Oh! Right, she began jabbering on and on about how I'd…failed her."

"Failed her? What did you fail?"

"Apparently, catching a person that had committed homicide, and, uh… love."

"Love? _Love_? Sherlock Holmes, in _love_?"

"I must say _she _was in love _me_; thank you very much!" Sherlock retorted hotly, not realizing what he was saying.

"But didn't you just say-"

"NEVER MIND WHAT I SAID!"

Both Sherlock and John were surprised at the sudden outburst; Sherlock was surprised that he'd been so flustered with John's mention of the word 'love' one too many times that he had actually shouted, and John was surprised that no other slumbering hotel-go-er (whatever they were called) had been apparently awakened.

"Never mind, old boy, continue." John mumbled, almost under his breath.

"After this woman had finished speaking, she was shot."

"Shot?"

"Yes; shot. And the man that had shot her said to me, 'Beware false prophets that come to you in sheep's clothing, but inside are ravenous wolves'. Then, believe it or not, he turned into a wolf, and jumped at me. Then I woke up."

"Interesting…"

"Oh well, it probably doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't mean anything!" John cried incredulously. "You've been having the same dream over and over; maybe it _does _mean something!"

"I've just, been under stress, that's all."

"What do you mean, 'under stress'?"

"I've just been so _bored _lately!"

"You _do_ realize we went on holiday, and, might I add, in another _country_, simply to break up your daily routine, don't you?"

"Yes I do, and I'm _grateful _for that. Maybe I just need to go back to sleep."

"Maybe you do!" John muttered irritably.

But Sherlock discovered he could not go back to sleep. His brain longed for work to do. He was like a Border collie: he needed constant stimulation and activity to stay happy. And one could only be so stimulated by staring at the ceiling or listening to the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep. So, to work his brain a little, he began thinking about his dream again. He'd never seen that woman before in his life, so it wasn't someone he knew; don't you usually dream about people you know? He wondered if the man that had shot the woman was the "homicidal maniac". And what on earth could the "circus freaks" be? Perhaps they were literal members of a circus run amok. But Sherlock had learned not to take everything literally. Running these problems through his head, he finally fell asleep.

Brush-country of Backwater, Texas, 2:05 p.m. the next day

The scruffy-haired midget had no idea how he'd let himself be intimidated into working for a man like Harry "Wolf" Reid, a man with mass homicide hanging over his head.

Nonetheless, he'd been persuaded, bribed, and then finally threatened into being the eye in the sky for the criminal; his friends didn't call him "Gullible Gary" for nothing. And poor Gary: here he was, marching up to Wolf (who'd earned his nickname for his love of training wolf hybrids) with news of the latest developments on a particular subject; he'd no idea what, or _who_.

"Uh, sir?"

There he was: Harry, in the flesh, one of those terrible mongrels at his side.

Harry gave an exasperated sigh.

"What is it _now_, Gary?"

"News." Gary tentatively handed Harry an envelope. Harry snatched it away with an air of irritation and impatience. He tore it open and proceeded to read the paper previously inside. Gradually, he began to look even more angry and frustrated, and he balled the paper up in his hands and tossed it across the room. The wolf hybrid heard and saw it touch ground again; upon discovering the paper wasn't food, it trotted back to its master's side.

"W- what's the news, uh, uh, s-say?" Gary stammered.

"Our subject is planning to hire a specialist to hunt me down and have me…"

"Have you what, sir?"

"Have me executed."

Omni Hotel, Room 111, Corpus Christi, 11:00 a.m.; earlier

John had finally convinced himself that it was time to get his lazy behind out of bed. As his feet hit the floor, he realized Sherlock wasn't in the room. Upon investigation, John noticed he wasn't in the bathroom or balcony, either. Nor was his phone on the bedside table. John was considering sending his friend a text message when he recalled Sherlock leaving the room earlier, saying that he'd be in the breakfast lounge "if you need me". Poor old John, only half-awake at the time, had simply rolled over and gone back to sleep.

After getting dressed as fast as he could, he hurried down to the breakfast lounge. He found Sherlock slouched in a chair, phone pressed to one ear.

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, absolutely. The best time to meet… um, you know what, let me get back to you on that, I'm getting ready to eat breakfast here in a moment so… what? Oh okay, I will! Chow, chow chow chow!"

This was the conversation that greeted John as he sat down, and as soon as Sherlock had finally hung up, he asked,

"Whom were you talking to?"

"A girl named Molly Mallard. Says she wants my help to track down a man that's committed mass homicide."

"Mass homicide?"

"No, he got ripped and painted an orphanage; _yes_ mass homicide!"

"… Ignoring that. What do you know about the case?"

"The criminal is named Harry Reid. First moved into a town in Texas called Backwater. The lower class people were apparently treated rather badly, as they had to revert to crime to get by. So this Harry led an uprising against the upper class people, and Molly Mallard is a personal witness of this event. Says she knows some other eyewitnesses who can help convict him if necessary. It's probably going to be pretty easy." Oh, how Sherlock would regret those words...

**Just to let you know, Backwater is based off of the town I'm living in now, but of course it's not really called "Backwater". Since I'm constantly changing POVs, locations, and times, I thought I'd put a header whenever location and time are changed between POVs. At first, I thought it would spoil the whole surprise of the "dream scene", as I was hoping no one would expect that, but when I put a header above that paragraph, I realized that it actually didn't spoil it too much in my mind. Anyways, review! And, as an added bonus, R & R, and I'll R & R back! The review button gets lonely:'(.**


	2. Molly & The Abandoned Cabin

I'm back, my peeps! Before I let you read the next chapter, I'd like to thank Genguice and insaneradio for their kind reviews! Reviews are _love_, people! R & R, and I'll R & R back. Now, ONWARD!

Location: Center of Backwater, Texas, Time: 2:00 p.m.

John took a deep breath of cool air and exhaled.

"So, we're going to meet this Molly at a café, huh?"

For several seconds, Sherlock didn't reply, but eventually mumbled, "M-hm." The only sounds were the crunching of their feet on leaves, the wind blowing through the almost-bare tree branches, or the occasional dog bark. The clouds on the edge of the horizon were smoky gray, threatening rain. The icy-cool breeze brought with it the smell of moisture and fall air. John shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and muttered that he didn't think Texas could be so cold.

"Be thankful you brought a warm coat, or you would probably be freezing right now!" Sherlock retorted. One would think that two men that had spent most, if not all, of their lives in England would be used to cold climates, but in anticipation of hot, dry weather, they'd packed almost all of their lightweight clothes and hardly any heavy-weight.

"We're here," Sherlock announced suddenly. The two were standing in front of a dust-coated, white brick building. "Oasis Café" was painted in violet paint on one window. A young girl, her blonde hair tied back, was sitting perched on the hood of a beat-up, cherry red Jeep Wrangler.

"You must be Molly," Sherlock said. Molly smiled.

"Indeed I am. You must be Sherlock and John. Come on in." The three of them scuttled through the doorway and sank down in the nearest booth. Even at this rather late hour, the place was packed tighter than a subway station. Everywhere was the sound of murmuring voices; one could not escape them. High-mettled children dashed about while their parents tried in vain to catch them.

When John took a moment to study Molly, he noticed how much she looked like the woman in Sherlock's dream. She had blonde hair with faint brown streaks in it; whether this was natural or not, he didn't know. She looked like she could be no more than five-foot-three. She was even wearing a white t-shirt with an eagle emblem blazed on it and a pair of jeans (no heels, though).

Molly was watching Sherlock intently, almost self-consciously.

"What _are _you staring at?" she mumbled.

"You're a dog trainer, aren't you?"

"Yes, how did you-"

"The bumper sticker on your car says 'I Love My Dobie'. Your Doberman's a rescue; there are several bite marks on your arm, suggesting the dog is fearful-aggressive. The book in your purse is Be the Pack Leader, a book on dog psychology and training, is it not? You're trying to correct your dog's behavior. And, there's a training clicker and a small bag of dog treats in your left pocket." Both John and Molly sat silently stupefied at Sherlock's brilliant deduction.

"I knew I hired the right man for the job," Molly said, smiling.

"But, there are more serious needs to be dealt with. We have a man that needs arresting!" All of a sudden, she stopped, staring straight ahead of her. "Speak of the devil," she hissed under her breath. A man, easily six feet tall, black hair falling into his eyes, came bursting into the little café, passing by silently; he apparently didn't notice the threesome.

"Huh, he doesn't look so scary," Sherlock muttered.

"Believe me, you don't know him like I do!" Molly pressed.

"I have an idea!" She announced suddenly. "Let's go ahead and leave. We can wait in the parking lot and follow Harry when he leaves; figure out where he's been hiding."

"Good idea," Sherlock agreed.

Location: Brush-country of Backwater, Time: 2:10 p.m.

Harry paced back and forth, practically as fast as he could. Ramses the wolf hybrid lay on the floor, watching his master intently.

"I'm a dead man, Ramses," he mumbled. "Tell me what I should do."

"Ruff!" Ramses answered.

"_What _am _I going to do? _Harry thought._ If I'm dead, who's going to take care of the wolves? That dimwit Gary is too idiotic to do it… wait a minute, what am I thinking? If I can clear out of here fast enough, I'll be okay! I mean, how good can this so-called "specialist" _be_, anyway?_

Unbeknownst to Harry, the very "specialist" he'd just cursed was hiding not far away.

Upon watching the criminal eventually leave the café, Molly, Sherlock, and John set out in the Wrangler and trailed him. Finding him hiding out in the abandoned cabin in a mesquite "forest" (as close as one could get to a forest in an area of brush country), an idea had come to Molly's head. As quickly and in as few words as possible, she explained what she'd thought of: "Harry's going to run. He knows you're here. Don't ask me how he knows, but he's going to make a break for it. And he's going to very soon."

"How do you know he knows we're here and that he'll run soon?" John dared to ask.

"When I saw him in the café this afternoon, he looked pretty nervous, and when we started following him out to here, he was flat out bailing back. My answer is that he knows about us coming to find him. He's scared for his life. My plan is to get him to tell me where he wants to run. We can get a police force behind us and catch him, and that'll be the end of that."

"But how are you going to get Harry to tell you?" John argued. With an almost wry grin, Molly reached down underneath the front passenger's seat and dragged out two twelve packs of Miller Lite.

"He's gonna be too drunk to care." And thus she slipped away to carry out her evil plan, just as the first few drops of rain came from where they had threatened to fall.

Normally, Harry didn't let his hybrids in the cabin. He'd taken months to painstakingly build a wolf-proof fenced area of land, an area that, altogether, was twelve miles in size. Here, he'd let the wolves roam whenever he was gone; he only let them inside whenever he was actually home (which was rare). But only a few minutes ago, it began pouring down, and thus, he brought his beloved pets inside. Also normally, he didn't really give a rat's hind end as to what his wolves did, so long as they didn't sneak into his room and throw up on the bed, but he felt somewhat weirded out when his personal favorite wolf, Star, had situated herself in the entry, staring fixedly at the front door, and simply refused to be moved. Soon, she started howling, as if begging to be let out. At the same time, almost magically, the door opened, and Molly's sleek figure appeared.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" Harry hissed icily. Almost jokingly, Molly reached over and tapped on the door a few times. Harry just rolled his eyes almost into the back of his head.

"What do you want?" He muttered.

"Well, I was just driving by, thought I'd stop and say hello."

"How'd you even know I was here?" For several seconds, Molly couldn't think of an answer; then:

"It's a _reeeeeeally _long story that'll take approximately half a day to explain."

"I've got all day." Harry challenged; he didn't really believe that Molly was telling the truth; he just wanted to prove that he knew she was lying.

"Okay, I was going to throw a little get-together this weekend, but then something happened and it had to be canceled. Long story short, I've got two twelve packs and no one to share them with."

Location: Edge of Brush-country of Backwater, Time: 5:00 p.m.

Gary forced himself to swallow the fear that rose like bile in his throat. He was told to find Harry and tell him that an "unidentified vehicle" was headed out his way. Oh boy. He got to talk to a mass murderer. Huzzah.

Imagine his surprise, however, when upon coming up on the higher side of a deep dip, he saw two men standing under a mesquite tree, whose thin, wispy leaves offered little protection from the torrential downpour. Gary put his car in reverse, maneuvering it behind a screen of scrubby oaks. He slid out quietly, ducking behind a rather convenient boulder, listening in to the two men's conversation.

"Remind me why we got out of the car again?"

"Because, it's dull just sitting and waiting; waiting and sitting_. Out here_, you can stimulate your senses much more. Take a good, long, deep breath of air and tell me what you can smell."

"Rain, mud, moist air… oh, and a lovely overtone of cow dung!"

"Very good."

"I, I wonder how Molly's getting along. It's been several hours."

"I know… I'll send her a message; see if she responds."

With a sound of rumbling thunder, the rain was beginning to let up, the sun trying to peer down through the clouds. Then:

"Ah, a message! She says, 'everything's going splendidly. The plan worked.' "

"It did?"

"Apparently so."

A woman's voice broke the temporary silence.

"Did you move the car?"

"…Yes."

"Bad Sherlock."

"Hush, woman; I didn't wreck it. I think you did a good job of that…what? Ouch! What was that for? She hit me! John, she hit me!"

"I'm sorry."

"Let's get a move on, _ladies_, far too much to do. Huh-uh; _I'm_ driving. Sherlock, give me the keys. Sherlock!"

Molly tried to keep a hold on her patience and sanity as the predicament unfolded itself before her. Sherlock stood facing her, lips curled in a playful smile, holding the car keys up high above his head.

If you want them, you'll have to come and get them!" he teased, then turned around on his heel and shot off. And the chase ensued. John could almost hear the "Can-Can" playing as the two chased each other around and around the car. Molly finally pounced on her assailant, tackling him to the ground and forcefully jerking the keys away from him, holding them up triumphantly. But Sherlock twisted the upper half of his body around and gripped Molly's hand in his. With a few flicks and twists of his fingers, the keys fell once more into his hand, but not before his thumb accidentally pressed against the panic button.

Once Molly had, as she put it, "calmed the car down",

("Oh, does that mean you often accidentally press the panic button?" Sherlock wondered out loud, getting only a gentle, playful smack in answer.), she turned around, facing Sherlock and John.

"John's riding up front. Sherlock, you're staying in the back."

"Oh so you're punishing me for something that was a complete accident?" Sherlock muttered.

Molly grinned.

"Precisely."

"So, what do we still have to do before we're done for the day?" John asked. Sherlock shifted his body to where his right side was diagonally facing the front passenger seat, lifting his head to stare sullenly out the window.

"Let's see, I've messaged two friends of mine just now, and they're going to take care of everything else, so nothing."

"What are they going to do?"

"Assemble a few police officers who'll meet us in San Antonio when we go to arrest Harry."

"So that's where Harry's heading, San Antonio?"

"Yes."

Location: Mallard Residence, Center of Backwater, Time: 6:30 p.m.

Sherlock gazed blankly into space over the edge of his bowl of soup. John had retreated upstairs to take a shower, so it was just he and Molly.

"You've hardly touched your soup; not hungry?"

"No."

If you don't want it, I'll eat it…" Sherlock gently shoved the bowl across the table. Molly grinned, eyes seeming to flash in the dim light. And in that moment, he realized just how pretty she looked.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't, by any chance, happen to notice how much Molly looks like the woman in your dream, did you?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot? _Of course _I did! In fact, I think they're the same person. Think about it: Harry has committed mass homicide, and in my dream, there was reference to homicide, right? The only thing I can't figure out is what the 'circus freaks' are…"

John and Sherlock were sitting in the main living room; Molly had slipped off to take a quick shower, and thus, was not present.

"Nor can I," John replied with a resigned sigh.

"Okay, let's think of all the animals trained to perform in circuses. Elephants… lions… tigers… and bears…"

"Oh my!"

This is serious, John." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Sorry."

"Try wolf hybrids," suggested a new voice. Both John and Sherlock looked up to see Molly come striding into the room, a thin trail of shower steam following her.

"Back when Harry was running what could be called an extermination camp, he began training and using wolf hybrids for guarding and attacking purposes after one of his friends was mauled and killed by a guard dog. He has those same wolf-dogs with him now."

"So you heard us?" Sherlock ventured after a brief pause.

"Yes, I did."

"So all we have to do is follow Harry into San Antonio and arrest him?"

"Yep,"

"Oh this'll be too easy!"


	3. The Abandoned Cabin Again

I know some people don't like filler chapters, but things are getting a little hectic in my otherwise-boring life, so updates might be getting a little slower. A brief chapter is better than no chapter, right? R & R, and I'll R & R back. Oh, and happy Thanksgiving Peace!

Location: P.F. Chang's Chinese restaurant; Edge of Backwater, Time: 6:00 p.m. the next evening

"Sherlock…" Molly pleaded.

"No."

"You've hardly touched your food."

"I'm not that hungry."

"But you've barely eaten enough to keep a bird alive!"

"I'm just not hungry; now drop it!" Sherlock snapped slightly louder than necessary.

"Sherlock, as your doctor, I'd advise you to eat just a little more. Your brain needs food in order to function properly." John added. Suddenly, Molly got an idea. Taking Sherlock's fork in her hand, she stabbed a little of his lemon chicken, and, holding it level with his mouth, chimed in a cheery voice, "Here comes the airplane!"

Sherlock smacked the fork, sending lemon chicken and sweet-and-sour sauce plummeting into the candleholder, extinguishing the lone flame inside. He smirked, satisfied with his work, while Molly glared and John rolled his eyes.

Having slipped up front to pay, John and Sherlock came trotting back to the table on their way to the car, when they realized Molly wasn't there.

"Wonderful!" John muttered under his breath. Sherlock ignored the comment, focusing intently on something in the distance.

"Come on," he mumbled, grabbing a hold of his colleague's arm and jerking him down into a side alley formed by a gap in the brick wall bordering the outdoor eating area. The darkening shadows made it difficult to see; John couldn't make out what Sherlock had seen. The two of them began sprinting out of the alley and back out into the street. After what had seemed like miles, they halted out in front of an apparently abandoned cabin half-hidden in a clump of mesquite trees; John recognized it as the cabin where Harry was hiding out. Sherlock had sidled up onto the porch when an odd sound broke the silence: a moaning, "oomph"-ing kind of sound. And at that moment, swatting and cursing at thick clusters of thorny scrub bushes, a short, plump, half-bald man came waddling out into the moonlight.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," he panted between labored breaths. "I don't think the boss'll like it."

"I'm not afraid, if that's what you're getting at," Sherlock retorted before wrenching the door open and slipping inside, John at his heels. The two of them plodded on side by side into the living room. John noticed a rather large shadow stretched across the bottom step of a winding staircase, two lights shining nearby.

"What on earth are _fireflies _doing in here?" A beam of moonlight passed in through a window, shining onto the "shadow" revealing a long, slightly scarred muzzle and two furry ears. The "shadow" stood up, lips curling back to reveal ivory colored fangs; the "shadow" was not a shadow, it was a wolf-dog; those "fireflies" were actually the beast's eyes. A loud snarl erupted as it slinked forward, eyes glittering with what seemed like malice. John alerted Sherlock to the threat by clearing his throat. Sherlock whipped around, and the two of them faced the creature.

"Nice wolf-doggy, nice wolf-doggy," a voice said, coming from behind; it was the fat little midget they'd seen outside.

"Go on back upstairs, you hound of hell!" He snarled.

"Now now now, I won't have anyone calling my beauties hell-hounds," yet another new voice broke in. The threesome glanced up in the direction of the voice and saw Harry leaning against the railing of the staircase.

"Gary, I think the whole purpose of having a watchdog is having a _dog _that _watches_," he hissed icily.

After a brief pause, the little midget -Gary- broke down:

"I'm sorry, Boss; I tried to tell them but they wouldn't listen!"

"You couldn't even do that; why didn't I execute you when I had the chance? I'd have been rid of a big headache, but _noooo_, I took pity on you because you were so stupid and pathetic." Then he added, more to himself, "That's what I get."

"Look, I-" Gary began, but was cut off before he could finish.

"I don't want to hear your lies, you sniveling little imp!" Harry snarled, jumping over the remaining stairs, landing more or less noiselessly. The wolf-dog turned and trotted to his side, all signs of aggression gone.

John noticed a few tears beginning to trickle down Gary's face; he reached over hesitantly and patted the midget on the shoulder. Sherlock hadn't noticed this exchange, instead addressing the reason he'd showed up:

"I don't want a lot of trouble, so just tell us where Molly is, and we'll be on our way."

"I don't have to tell you anything." Harry retorted, standing nearly nose to nose with the world's only consulting detective.

"Oh yes you do!"

"If I told you where she was, that would ruin the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"Her and I had a lovely little chat just now, and I believe we came to an understanding…"

"What did you talk about?" Harry held one finger up to his lips.

"It's a surprise."

"Fine; give me a hint; I can find her on my own."

"She's upstairs. You find her, I'll let you go." John and Sherlock began climbing up the stairs. The last words they heard were, "And just where do you think _you're _going?"

Having reached the upper landing and being confronted with a maze of rooms, Sherlock mumbled, "Okay, you take the left wing of the house, I'll take the right."

"Right…"

It seemed like John had been wandering for forever when he head something: a soft thump. Sprinting in the direction of the sound, he saw Molly lying stretched out on her side on the floor.

Can I get a "dun dun duuuuuuuun!" from the crowd? What did Molly and Harry discuss that's such a secret? How many of you figured out what the "shadow" was before I revealed it? What's gonna happen next? Why am I asking so many questions? I guess you'll have to review! I'm not updating until I get at least three reviews. Oh yeah; I'm withholding my next chapter from you! What'cha gonna do next? REVIEW! Ta-ta,

-Blizzard


	4. IMPORTANT NOTE!

To my dear friends,

I'll have you know that this fic is now on permanent hiatus and is going to be completely rewritten and re-titled. Harry and Molly will be in the new one, along with a few new characters as well. The plot will be a little different, too. The original _Den of Zorn-rah _wasn't really gtting anywhere, or so it seemed to me, so it's going down! The first new chapters are in progress. The new is gonna be MUCH better, and Sherlock does find himself between a rock and a hard place relationship-wise in this new one, like I had planned in the original. The second fic is tilted _Prince of Destruction_ and will be up on the 30th, the same date that this piece of crap is going down to be burned up in a pile of other horrible fics I've written.


End file.
